


Dipped in crimson

by dasburnfrau (wifebeast__s), wifebeast__s



Category: L.A. By Night (Web Series), Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, During Canon, F/M, Fluff and Angst, One Shot Collection, Pining, Vampires, canon adjacent, chronological one-shots, jeva
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wifebeast__s/pseuds/dasburnfrau, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wifebeast__s/pseuds/wifebeast__s
Summary: Chronological snapshots of Jasper and Eva's relationship through L.A. by Night. Primarily based on interactions on screen, with off screen bits sprinkled in.Tags and rating will change, as appropriate.
Relationships: Jasper/Eva (L.A. by Night)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 30





	1. The first color of spring

**Author's Note:**

> Binge watching L.A. by Night has led me inexorably to this "post new" screen. One day I will be able to watch something and not immediately need to write a shippy, potentially angsty character study/slow burn...but it not this day.

Jasper Heartwood is dead.

These are the words he wakes to every night and the words that send him to sleep each dawn, a reminder to himself, lest he forget what has has become.

They ground him. They keep him sane when the things he’s done and seen seem like they might overwhelm. They make things possible. They make the strange numbness of being a Kindred bearable.

Jasper Heartwood is dead, and so he cannot feel pain, even if he cannot feel joy.

But something tugs at him when he sees her. The others were not aware of her, did not know that she lived in this place. This place…above him.

He knew. He knows secrets, collects them, after all, and their coterie isn’t the only source of interest or work for him, of course. He has been here before, but he has never spoken to her. It never seemed right, and he has always preferred to stay unseen.

Victor is the one who strikes the deal, a favor now for a favor some when. It is the way of things. But he barely follows the conversation.

He wonders more at her appearance, not for the first time. So pale, like the moon, reflecting light from something that he himself is now denied. 

The others do not know her, and he makes no move to indicate that he does. Not that he knows her, but he knows of her. And now he knows her name. Eva. 

Now he has the chance to simply watch what she is capable of.

She is powerful.

Older than any of them, he is certain.

Her hands draw his attention. They seem such fragile things. Elegant, fluid. But no, that is just the surface. They are self-assured. They are practiced. 

The unwelcome curiosity seizes him only for a second; what would it be like to touch them with his own?

His fist clenches.

He is not made for such exquisite things.

He is coarse and crude.

Eva is kind, he knows. He can tell these things. She did not flinch in his presence. He can see the humanity in her, sees how she clings to it, how she disapproves of the terrible things their kind do.

But kindness is not what he so selfishly imagines, watching one beautiful finger circle the silver cup she holds.

She looks at him over its rim, as she is performing miracles with blood, a gentle smile tugging on her lips, and he wonders if it is possible for his unbeating heart to stop.


	2. Creating red in a world of black and white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper sees Eva at the Succubus Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Season 1, Episode 8
> 
> Quote: "I write to create red in a world that often appears black and white." - Terry Tempest Williams

Just the name, Succubus Club, fills him with disgust, a reminder of the evil creatures they all are, a celebration of it. He feels the growl in his chest, but he cannot hear it even in his own mind, the music is so loud.

He does not bother with concealing himself when he sees others similarly in the open.

One by one his companions go in pursuit of their individual endeavors. He remains behind, scanning the room, whether out of diligence or boredom even he cannot say. There are faces he recognizes, none of them that hold his attention for long.

At first.

In a sea of blacks, greys, sequins, and extravagance, he sees her. He does not wish to be melodramatic, but for just a beat it looks as though the entire crowd parts, framing a flash of pure white, like a sunbeam streaming through a gap in the clouds. White hair, against pale skin, wrapped in soft white linen.

A vision.

But real. Blessedly real.

Eva is at the bar, red liquid in a glass that she twirls idly between those delicate fingers that recently mesmerized him. 

Soon the crowd closes in again, and he makes his way to the bar with a casual air that does not betray the tempest that is within him. There is a slight tremor in his hand, as he ducks and weaves through the crowd, cautious not to come into contact with any on the writhing dance floor.

Victor has gone through a curtain on a stage, and Nelli followed their hostess up to another level, and he sits to wait for Annabelle to return. It’s what he tells himself, even as his eyes are drawn to the occasional spark of white down the bar from where he positions himself. Even without his special abilities, he is good at going unnoticed.

He wrestles with what to do. Approach the angelic presence at the far end or leave her unspoiled by his rough edges?

His turmoil is ended by the approach of Annabelle, apparel changed per the rules of their hostess, and with her appearance, Eva follows suit. 

Something bubbles in his chest, he thinks, when she smiles at him, and he cannot stop himself from returning it. He settles his features as quickly as possible, knowing that his own grin can be unpleasant to look at, a fact he often uses to his advantage but has no interest in at the moment. And he doesn’t want anyone present, in this nest of vipers and self-identified demons, to know that something here has brought him even a moment of joy.

His eyes are drawn to her fingertip, the trimmed and painted nail disappearing in the pool of viscous crimson in an absurdly ornate glass champagne flute. He follows it from the glass, the blood dripping from it, to her lips, where she presses the liquid to her tongue.

He fights the urge to swallow, a wholly unnecessary thing now.

“So nice to see you both again,” her melodic greeting is clearer to him than the music, which has, like the crowd, faded entirely into the background, “Isn’t this fabulous?”

“Hello Eva,” he manages, though he wonders if his stuttering breath is obvious to his companions, “nice to see you again.”

He finds that he means it. She smiles once more at him. Does she know? Perhaps his suspicion is true, and she can see into whatever remains of his soul, pick out the truth buried there beneath pale skin, twisted, knotted bone, and blackened veins. 

The thought fills him with fear as much as excitement, and he distracts himself from the thought by taking part in his latest past-time: explaining the intricacies of this monstrous existence to Annabelle.

He can work out this other mystery later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written through almost all of season 3 and some little bits and pieces of season 4. I don't know if I'm ready to tackle the end of season 4 yet...but it must be done.


	3. Some people can't see the color red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper is ready to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Season 1, Epilogue 1
> 
> Quote: "Some people can't see the color red. That doesn't mean it isn't there." - Sue Grafton

By the time he is sitting in the coffee shop on the campus of Griffith College, he realizes it has been weeks since he has done this. His diligence in this matter has waned, and he thinks it is not such a bad thing. 

Chloe looks older than when he…died. Not much, but it is startling to see how five years can make a difference, knowing that he will remain forever unchanged, no matter how many times the sun rises or sets, how many revolutions the Earth makes around the sun.

He is - wants to be - pleased that she is doing well.

He is - wants to be - less pleased that she still struggles to let go of him.

She has changed in some ways. In other ways she is still the same.

For the first time in five years since he’s been dead, he wonders how long he will keep doing this. He understands that his clinging to this…this small piece of his life before has served as a tether to humanity. What little he had scraped together after coming to LA.

Given the things he has done, the things he continues to do, he struggles with that, and for those five years, watching Chloe live her life, work on the paper, seek the truth - all those things that he used to tease her about, in fact - helps. It puts things in perspective. For better or worse.

But things are changing for him.

He isn’t comfortable putting a name to it, but deep in the recesses of his mind, when he thinks of humanity and salvation, he no longer sees Chloe. Instead he sees pale, slender fingers, nails painted deep red, hears a throaty voice reciting Latin over a silver bowl.

Still.

_Handsome_ Dave, whoever he is, digs into him all the same. He stares down at hands that more resemble claws, joints knotted, skin some sickly mix of white and grey, underlined with dark purple and black where his veins have withered. He clenches a fist. 

Chloe misses Jasper Heartwood, but Jasper Heartwood is dead.

And the living must move on when people die.

It is not a decision made with any real clarity of thought. 

He is driven as much by his desire to see her move on as he is his own need to do the same.

He scrawls the letter quickly, drops it silently onto the tray, and he waits.

Her reaction is not what he expects, and it dawns on him immediately that he has made a mistake. 

This will come back to bite him, he knows. Probably in more ways than one. 

But it is done now, and he cannot take it back.

There are many things, in fact, that he cannot undo, so he does what he did the first time; he leaves.


	4. I want to be wearing red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper and Eva can teach each other some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between seasons 1 and 2
> 
> Quote: "I want to be different. If everyone is wearing black, I want to be wearing red." ~ Maria Sharapova

It takes him some days to work up to approaching her, especially after his potentially cataclysmic fuck up, where every moment he feels the axe about to drop and doesn’t wish to have her caught in the downswing. Still…

She lives so close by, it’s easy for him to make the trip to find her, and he couldn’t say exactly why he hesitates, not really. As it is, it is the third night before he gathers the courage, and when he does, he isn’t really surprised that she greets him first.

“I wondered when you might be back.”

He cannot help but smile because of course she knew, and she is not turning him away.

“I…well, I was curious.”

She smiles, too, waving one of her hands - hands that never fail to hypnotize him, and maybe he should think more about that - to invite him closer, “I suspected as much.”

He thinks he would flush if he were still human, “Of course you did.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Jasper,” and he doesn’t miss the way she emphasizes the word see.

He smiles again, “Ahhh yeah. About that-”

“I understand. I have no issue with…I do not begrudge you your…gifts.”

Silence settles around them for a moment, Eva’s hands coming together, while she waits patiently, and maybe he’s imagining it, but she seems shy, looking at him, then looking away, and he wants to tell her that she’s welcome to look. She doesn’t look at him with immediate disgust, and isn’t that something?

He is used to being silent, but he often finds others filling that silence. It is comforting to sit in the quiet with someone who is similarly comfortable. It is nice to be uninterrupted by someone else’s every thought or whim or fancy. Silence. Calm.

After a moment she smiles again and gestures at a silver bowl in front of her, and he realizes for the first time that he has interrupted something. His gaze follows her gesture and studies the tools before her. They look like antiques - not very old, probably only a few decades, polished silver with intricate details that loop and whirl and have the same enigmatic energy that she does.

“I…oh. I apologize. I see I have…it seems I interrupted something.”

She looks up at him from her work and hums in amusement, shaking her head, “You are welcome here, and you are no bother.”

He feels strange when she says it. It takes him a while to realize that what he feels could be best described as…warmth. It is a foreign sensation in his cold chest, though not unwelcome.

He nods with a grateful growl and watches her for a while, entranced by her hands stirring the vitae. He is not hungry, which is lucky. He doesn’t want to make a bad impression. And he forgets, for a moment, what he came for. 

Rather it no longer seems important to him. Now he just wants to know what she is doing. 

“I’m preparing a potion, one just for me this time,” she offers, as if she heard him thinking.

He lets out a gruff laugh, and her lips twitch up at the sound.

It’s enough to bring him back to his purpose, and he remembers vividly a scene in this same spot some nights ago, Eva calmly instructing Annabelle how to heal herself - “Imagine your skin knitting together. Do it.” And Annabelle did it.

He straightens, unaware until that moment that he had been leaning forward, “I, uh, well I was hoping you could…answer some questions, maybe also teach me. I’ve always…even before, I mean, I always wanted to learn something. And in turn, I can…teach you?”

She nods slowly, whether an answer to his request or because she knew his purpose, he isn’t sure, or perhaps it’s both.

And he understands, too, that she will continue with him when her ritual is done, knows that he is welcome to stay. He looks around, finds a reasonably close spot, and sits, steepling his fingers and settling in. He can learn any time. For now, he is content to watch.

* * *

He is pleased to learn that he was right; Eva is kind. 

She is also smart.

And she is curious.

As much information as he gathers during his visits, he finds he offers nearly as much. He loses time with her at the observatory, the nights that he can spare, that he isn’t running an errand for Abrams or working with the coterie. 

They meet in the park, near the observatory where they first met. He does not see her haven, nor does she see his. She likes to work outside, she tells him, to walk in the fresh air. It helps her to concentrate. And, she explains, the moon inspires her.

She is a romantic. 

She teaches him how to will his vitae to eat through metal, like he’s seen Nelli do, and his smile is broad when he watches his blood burn and sizzle the first time, eating away at a cheap knife.

He learns that she speaks Latin, and sometimes for fun he will slip into the lost tongue, just for an excuse to use it. An excuse to hear her speak it.

He finds he lets his guard down around her, and it isn’t a problem for him until one night, as she is preparing a ward, he mutters how useful such a thing would be at the back door of the labyrinth.

She pauses in her work and gives him a quizzical look.

In for a penny they say, he thinks, even as he lets out a rough sigh of frustration - at himself, of course - and nods.

“It’s a…where I live, you see, under the park,” and he grins at her surprised face, “there is a…how do I explain this?”

She abandons her work entirely, attention focused on him. He can feel it in his spine. It might be uncomfortable, but that never bothers him. It doesn’t hurt.

“It’s a strange place, really. I think it’s a labyrinth; that’s what I call it. It’s…it is…there is magic there. I’ve been mapping it. It’s…difficult to explain,” he finally admits.

There is a light in her eyes. He recognizes it. She wants to understand it, wants to answer the questions he has been studying for years now.

“Jasper,” she starts, her voice something like a question, something like a reprimand, “I know what I’d like in exchange for what I shared with you about Annabelle.”

“Ahhh,” he mutters, though it turns into a laugh. He should have known this would happen. He is loathe to share his secrets, but he is far less irritated by the prospect of sharing this one with her, “Just tell me when.”

She smiles at that but says nothing further, instead returning to her work.

* * *

The first time Eva walks behind a column and does not appear again on the other side, he almost claps, but he settles for a wide grin, exposing his fangs. It is the closest approximation he has to the deep sense of pride he feels. 

She took to it quickly, not that he is surprised, and when she does appear again, she is smiling more broadly than he thinks he has seen before on her pallid features.

He thinks it suits her.

She takes a step toward him, and he leans forward slightly. She hesitates. He remembers his place.

He straightens, offers a subtler smile, “That was very good, Eva.”

She nods, and maybe he just imagines the flash of disappointment in her eyes, but then she smiles, too, stepping close, much closer than most people are willing to approach, “Thank you, Jasper.”

“Y…you’re welcome,” he stares down at her. She is shorter than he realized, her presence looming far larger in his mind.

“I think this will come in handy, if I continue working with your coterie.”

His face twitches, as he thinks about the trouble they seem to attract, the ongoing danger, the times he himself has been near torpor, and he doesn’t want that for her. But then again, she is formidable. And more time with Eva could never be a bad thing.

He grins, “It really will.”


	5. Red will set them on edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper takes the coterie back to Griffith park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 2, Episode 1! I had forgotten, when I first started jotting down notes, that Eva was in this episode, since JCVIM started the role like right after. I also am behind on posting. Ooooops. :D
> 
> This chapter's quote: "Black is too morbid; red will set them on edge; pink is too juvenile; orange is freakish" ~ Lauren Oliver

It’s been weeks since he has seen the Coterie, and as he takes a seat at the board room style table, he already feels exhausted. 

The pleasantries are exchanged and not exceptionally pleasant before he finally is able to remind them, “We do have something to do tonight. There is a reason we’re all together.”

He could not have said no when she asked, and even now, with Nelli airing his dirty laundry out in front of X, he is willing to accept whatever awkwardness to fulfill her request.

“Uh, we need to go see a mutual friend. We have to go see Eva,” he considers his words and rephrases, “She has asked that we go see her.”

He tries to keep his voice even. Factual.

Victor shakes his head, “I haven’t seen her since the Succubus Club-”

“That is true,” he agrees, though of course he has seen her since, “but she wants us to meet her in the place we first met her.”

“Any particular reason why?” Nelli crosses her arms slightly, leans back, and he wonders why she is so suspicious.

“She didn’t say,” he offers, “She just asked. She has something she wants the coterie to do.”

Victor waxes poetic for a while about his position and how it means he must help. 

He is not listening; his leg is bouncing under the table, the only sign - invisible at that - that he is eager to get a move on. He has already agreed, but he doesn’t mention that fact. 

No one thinks to ask why she reached out to Jasper and not to the baron directly.

Finally they are moving, and Victor, shaking his head, comments, “You know, the last time I asked her for something, she seemed…snippy. I won’t forget that.”

Snippy? Not a word that comes to mind when he thinks of the couple of evenings he has stood with her under the stars, excitedly sharing notes and discussing the work she does, “Really? She seems fine to me.”

“You have questionable judgement.”

It’s not worth disagreeing; it’s far more important to him that they go.

***

When they arrive, it is all he can do to not leap out of the vehicle.

“Did she say where to meet her?”

“Here. Where we met her last time, which was right outside the doors.”

He offers nothing further, opening the door and exiting, not bothering to hide his approach. If the others find it strange, they for once have the good sense to say nothing about it.

She steps from behind a column, flower-covered dress wrapping her in a brightness that defies the night, and he cannot stop himself from smiling.

“Good evening, Eva. You look very nice,” he offers as a polite greeting, pleased that his voice comes out steady.

“Jasper that’s very kind of you to say,” she acknowledges, continuing on the path toward them, “you also look very nice indeed.”

Her eyes linger on him, a smile on her lips, and it’s like they are telling some secret joke, the two of them, playing at distance that is not so great these nights.

She greets her other guests, exchanging warm pleasantries with each of them, and he finds himself transfixed. He tries not to stare, tries not to be too obvious, looking down and smiling to himself between studious gazes of her in the light of the observatory behind her.

He sobers quickly when she speaks of the Camarilla, of Vannevar’s encroachment on LA.

“Several members of my clan have made the nighttime journey from San Diego to Los Angeles. They need shelter. They require a place to reside and to hunt. To feed. I would prefer that they find shelter under your wing.”

He glances at Victor, trying to gauge his reaction.

The idea of having more Tremere around makes him giddy.

Victor seems less intrigued, “My understanding is you have an existing relationship with Baron Abrams.”

“It is true,” she nods, “he and I have known each other for some time. But our relationship is strictly professional.”

He cannot help the gruff half-choke, half-laugh that he lets out, but Victor is deep in the conversation and does not seem to notice, “And ours isn’t? Because you might recall the last time I reached out to you, you said,” he digs through his pocket, pulling out his phone, “‘don’t call me.’ I think that was the last conversation you and I had. So now, I understand our system of boons and what not; I understand that you’re speaking to me as the Baron now because now you have to respect me, but when the tables were a bit more even, you were, shall we say…uncooperative?”

Eva is smiling.

Jasper is annoyed, “To be fair, you’re the Baron, and I still talk to you that way.”

Victor ignores him, “So I guess what I’m saying, because I’m not insensitive to the plight of your clan, what’s in it for us?”

Eva hums, still smiling, unperturbed by Victor’s accusations, “A fair question."

Finally it comes down to Victor asking questions that he himself has already asked, and he cannot help but twist the knife when Eva explains that she had been the one to perform blood magic on Annabelle, “You didn’t know?”

The haughty air around both Victor and Nelli set his jaw to clenching. Their pride is maddening. But he has not come this far with them without learning what makes them tick.

“It seems to me,” he shrugs casually, “that if someone who is a new baron wants to be known as someone who gets things done accepting when people ask for a boon, and doing it well, would behoove a new baron.”

He doesn’t think it comes across as a threat.

Regardless, Victor agrees.

“Very well. I will send them there,” she smiles, eyes catching his, and excitement bubbles in him, as if they have pulled off some heist. 

***

Jasper never has problems coming here on his own; it’s only when he arrives with Victor and Nelli that things go awry.

Ghosts. 

It’s not enough to have the Camarilla encroaching, the second inquisition in town, they have to deal with ghosts?

He appreciates the opportunity to watch Eva’s brilliance, see her confidently sharing knowledge. Some things didn’t change with the Embrace, and his attraction to intelligence is one example of that.

His moment to bask in her glory is cut short, of course, by some awful thing happening, if Nelli’s sprint back toward the vehicle is any indication. Seeing nothing, he stays put.

“Jasper, this could go very wrong,” Eva speaks quietly enough to not cause alarm.

He almost grins, “I’m sure it could. Things tend to go that way. What do you suggest?”

She looks at the SUV and back, “Well if anything happens to me, please make sure the sisters are safe.”

If anything happens…the words reverberate in his skull for a moment, and he barely manages to say aloud, “I will.”

Of course something happening to her is not an option, “But I’ll…stay right here.”

To keep you safe.

“Because I can’t see what we’re fighting. Yet.”

She almost smiles, her eyes softening, “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about that.”

“No,” and he’s smiling. This is exactly where he is supposed to be.

He sees the gun, a flash of metal in the light of the street lamps lining the drive, and he does not even think. It is only a couple of steps, after all. He pushes her back behind him, just as the crack of the shotgun blast bounces off the columns.

As Parnell takes aim once more, Jasper sees Eva retrieve something from a pocket - a vial of some sort, which she opens, drinking the contents in a single swallow.

“Did whatever you happened to take decrease the physical harm you would take if you were shot?”

“No,” she draws out the word in something like a tease, “but it does do this,” and she begins to rise off the ground.

It is a fitting metaphor - he crouches in the dirt, and she rises above him, pale and glorious in the moonlight.

“Well I can't do anything to stop bullets from hitting that,” he grouses.

Still, it frees him up to participate in the melee. His muscles, tense since the fighting began, coil before he leaps, crossing the distance to the parking lot in a single bound and slamming the driver’s head against the tinted window of the SUV.

He has a flash of a memory - two heads coming together between his hands, the crunch of skulls, two bodies no longer undead.

Parnell doesn’t die.

***

“So that was very exciting,” her voice drifts to him from above, as she lowers toward the ground nearby, and he watches her slow, graceful descent.

“It was.”

“Nelli…you are just going to abandon her here? Shall I ask her to find you tonight?”

“Please.”

They offer to take her with them. They cite the danger. He isn’t sure there won’t be more danger wherever they go, though there is a flutter in his gut at the prospect of her joining them.

“I am in no danger from these specters,” she declines politely.

Jasper smiles. It is for the best. Still…

“You will be alright?” 

“Yes,” she nods calmly before turning to X.

She hands X another vial, and he wonders which of these wondrous things he was witness to her creating.

They must leave. Victor presses them into the car.

Before following the barked directions, he catches her eyes, “Good evening, Eva.”

“Good night, Jasper,” she replies, not breaking his gaze, “And thank you for this.”

As they depart, X driving at speeds likely not ideal for this particular road, Victor, hanging onto his passenger handle, shakes his head, “You know, I’ve thought about it, maybe Abrams can have Griffith Park.”

“I like it there,” he muses, staring out at the swiftly passing scenery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna shout about vampires and ttrpg and other geeky things?? I am wifebeast__s on tumblr and dasburnfrau everywhere else!


	6. How red the rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper receives a rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously a lot going in the world, and I have had a lot going on at work, so while a lot of this is written, I've been slow to get it edited. I have this thing, too, where no matter how far ahead I am in a story, I try to finish a chapter before I post the next one...usually ensures I finish whatever the story is. Aaaaanyhoo.
> 
> This was the first chapter I wrote when I started this, and I figure it's time to share it now.
> 
> Chapter quote: "How red the rose that is the soldier" ~ Wallace Stevens

It is comforting to be so distracted by a shimmering, deep red that _isn’t_ blood, the soft petals of the single rose drawing Jasper’s eye repeatedly. Tracking the conversation feels less important than the mysteries woven around its stem. The Weird Sisters are safe; he scraped by without dying; and there is danger on every corner - nothing has changed.

Well…something has changed, perhaps, he muses, tilting his head and watching how the light shifts the color of the petals.

She had paused before handing the gift to him, meeting his eyes for what had to be only a few seconds, but he felt frozen, as she brought the vivid flower to her nose to mimic a deep inhale. He had stammered out a greeting, unable to take the rose directly from her, instead focused intently on its progress from her hand to the polished surface before him, where he now continues to stare silently.

She gave flowers to the others, he reminds himself, eyes taking in the bright pink of Anabelle’s roses and the darker, maroon flowers that she had handed to Victor. And he pretends not to notice the pointed looks that they each give the vibrant crimson that sits before him.

He wishes he were alone. He wants to study the rose. Wants to touch it, rub the petals between his cold, dead fingers, wonder and…perhaps hope. He wants to do these things in the quiet privacy of his haven, not in this den of gilded things.

Instead, here, he feels exposed, and not as a result of blackened, charred skin that mars the side of his otherwise still grisly visage. He frowns - he had mostly forgotten that - and fights the urge to scratch the raw burns.

So he asks, to understand their purpose, to hear that there is no deeper meaning. He cannot hold onto such an idea, even as his lips tug into something like a smile. A genuine thing, not the feral grin that he is relegated to most nights. 

“They were too beautiful to pass up.”

Eva glances at him across the room, or maybe she too is looking at the rose. Is she imparting answers there? Crafting a message upon its leaves with her magic?

“You deserved something for the trouble you went through.”

At that, her eyes meet his in earnest, and he feels _shy_. 

She smiles.

Another mystery.

A puzzle.

He wants to smile again, though when he does, the tug of muscles pulls at his skin, and isn’t that unpleasant?

“I apologize, Jasper,” she offers from across the room, like a gentle brush against the burned, flaking skin.

He does smile then, “You didn’t light the fire,” he muses, “it’s fine.”

“I would never.”

The questions she asks are questions for all of them, but still he feels as though they are conversing alone, the shifting of Annabelle to his left, or Victor’s voice adding commentary the only reminders that they are there.

He is surprised when he realizes the rose is in his hands again, twirling between his fingers, and he allows himself to indulge, to look, to enjoy the way the light plays on the flower - scarlet, ruby, garnet. 

“I know very little about Tremere,” Victor admits, breaking his reverie for a moment.

He looks up from the petals, “I’m getting to know them rather quickly,” he mutters.

Or he believes he is. There is more to learn, clearly.

A voice inside, not the Beast, whispers to him, as he studies it. It teases him with random knowledge, bits of trivia about flowers and their meanings. It also reminds him of what he is. Perhaps it means nothing. Perhaps there will be a cost to this, something he cannot yet guess at. Perhaps she is just a kind woman who saw something beautiful, though how that beauty would remind her of him, he cannot say. 

Yes, a puzzle.

And he is fond of puzzles.

* * *

Protection.

Annabelle offers it.

Victor offers it.

He holds the rose once more, marveling at its delicacy - petals fine and soft - and its danger, thorns that threaten to dig under his fingernails, as he draws the pads of his fingers over them.

He wonders how deep those promises go.

What are they willing to do, to ensure her safety?

Pain flares on the top of his thumb, where a thorn has dug in, and he grins at it, at the timing of it. What _isn’t_ he willing to do?

* * *

He knew that the sheriff, Marco, had used some sort of blood sorcery, and it’s been bugging him since last night.

It is a surprise to her, as well.

He was certainly no Tremere.

“Or someone taught him. I’d like to know who.”

Most of her clan would not share such secrets. Their evenings in the park would be grounds enough for most Tremere to punish her. Still she teaches him, and it fills him with joy and pride and something else that simmers deep behind his useless lungs.

“Yeah, seeing as the people who, at least from my knowledge, who teach out of clan, tend to be aligned with you,” he holds the rose once more, as he looks across at her.

“It’s true,” she shifts slightly in her seat, not meeting his eyes this time.

“Do you think there’s, like, a magic teacher in the city?” Annabelle, innocent and curious as ever, wonders aloud.

Eva looks up at that, and he almost laughs, “I don’t know who that could be.”

“House Carno, over the other houses, are more open to teaching…those with an aptitude…some of our magic,” she glances at him that time, and he thinks again they are having a private conversation right in the open.

Aptitude.

He rolls the word through his mind, presses it against memories of time spent in darkened halls reading books that claimed to offer power, seeking…always seeking more.

He’s not sure about aptitude, but knowledge…he can admit to having that.

When she mentions offering wards, a Cainite ward, he thinks his breath would be stolen, if he had it. It is powerful magic. It is…difficult. She is offering much. He stares at her for a moment, wondering at how casually she mentions it.

He cannot let her offer be treated flippantly.

“I would say that, uh, our” he shakes his head slightly, looks at her and cannot help the drop in his voice, “dear Eva here has…”

He clears his throat, gathers himself once more, “She is severely underplaying the value of what she’s offering. A Cainite ward is very very powerful.”

She looks down at the table in front of her when he says it, and he thinks perhaps she is embarrassed. 

She shouldn’t be. Not at all.

* * *

Kyoko is…a lot. Not in a bad way. In a way similar to Annabelle. Except he can’t help the subtle flinch when her hands go up to embrace Eva.

When she sees him, her face falls, “How are you…ohhhh. Hmm. Yeah.”

He grins, knowing that his blackened skin will stretch, the place where some of his lips have been peeled back will reveal more of his glistening, sharpened teeth than usual…quite a sight, he’s sure.

“Can you do anything about this?” Annabelle grimaces next to him.

“I don’t believe they can do anything about this.”

“If we could, we would,” Eva offers, looking at him and offering an apologetic, yet still warm, smile.

Kyoko approaches, leans down and gets close to inspect the wounds of his face. He resists the instinct to back away. People don’t like to get close to him. Somehow the Tremere collectively seem nonplussed.

“You know, Kyoko,” he takes the opportunity to indulge his curiosity, “I didn’t know Tremere could do things like that.”

Eva looks away, and Kyoko looks to her, “Can…can I tell him?”

Another smile, “Yes, I believe you can.”

So she tells him about the increased rarity of the magic.

Victor asks about the blood alchemy they witnessed the thin bloods doing.

“Should I tell him?” Kyoko asks, looking at her once more.

Eva blinks and shrugs, “Yes.”

She looks uncomfortable.

“Kyoko,” he practically sighs, “before you say anything, just as a point of order…when you ask someone else in company of people who don’t know if you can tell them something, that generally means you know something.”

“Oh I know.”

“I know, just…” he looks at Eva again, back to the younger kindred, “you’re putting Eva on the spot.”

Eva’s smile is worth the interruption. 

* * *

The labyrinth comes up.

In truth it doesn’t bother him. He has let it slip already, but the unspoken agreement between them seems to be that it is best to keep their evening work together secret.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Jasper.”

He stares at her for a moment, relishing the words but also wondering if she will slip. She doesn’t.

So he explains to her - that he lives under Griffith park, that there is a labyrinth.

She smiles, and he knows it’s because she understands this game he plays.

“I’d be curious to see it, though,” she drawls, and she passes him a coy look.

Has he been staring this whole time?

“I bet Jasper could probably show you,” Annabelle shrugs.

Victor, ever the Ventrue, adds to that, “Maybe in exchange for something that Jasper wants to learn from you.”

“Oh I already owe Eva some things.”

She meets his eyes, teasing when she adds, “We make a habit of owing each other favors.”

Annabelle hums at that.

“It would seem,” Eva finishes.

“It would. But we can talk about that later.” 

The look Annabelle gives him makes him immediately suspicious. He is being too open, he knows. He steadfastly refuses to look at the neonate, instead focusing on the air some feet ahead of him. Safer that way.

He can talk to Eva about it later.


	7. Don’t paint the apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper receives a gift from Eva via a third party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. July got AWAY from me.
> 
> Chapter quote: "Don't paint the apple; paint the red." ~ Arthur Lismer

This is just the latest in a series of long nights, still burned and uncomfortable from the encounter at the Grove, digging Nelli out of a crumbling church. 

Reminding Annabelle of her naïvete, saying words that he himself needs to remember, “Never assume they will never hurt you.”

He doesn’t know if he gets his point across - to her or to himself.

He is staring out of the vehicle with the others, watching the strange commotion outside the Maharajah. 

It’s at times amusing, at other times annoying, how Victor’s fame affects them. He is in a foul mood, he knows - when isn’t he, he supposes - so he tries to withhold his judgement. Even as Victor rolls down the window of the SUV, calling out to Campbell, and he has to try to duck into whatever shadows are there. Still he finds it amusing mostly.

Until the man in the center of the drama turns and waves at him. 

He frowns.

Campbell returns from speaking to the group of other security team members, and somehow Jasper already knows what he will say. 

“Uh, sir, uh, this young man…says he has something for Mr. Jasper.”

A lot of thoughts seize him, most of them plans for how to get out of here quickly and unseen. The man - boy - looks young, human. 

“What the fuck,” he mutters, now trying to find something, some bread crumb, to hint at who this person is, asking for him. By name. Victor advises them to let the young man in.

He passes idly through concern, to anger, and finally to curiosity, and that, as it frequently does, is what moves him away from the others and into the club to face this latest question in a long line of questions, most of which seem to have answers worse than the questions themselves. Hopefully, though he is doubtful, this is not one of those times.

He approaches unhidden, a strange feeling for him, being out in the open like this.

“Hey. Heyyy. Nice to see you-” the denim-clad stranger begins, smiling, even at Jasper’s grisly visage.

“Who are you?”

“Well I’m Tony,”

He shakes his head, wondering why this strange man in the denim jacket would think that name holds any meaning to him.

“Tony?”

“Hey, relax, relax. I work for Eva.”

That name has him frozen for just a second, and while not necessarily a bad answer, definitely not what he was expecting, and certainly only providing more questions, “Oh. S-”

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Okay.”

He watches, still wary, as Tony reaches into his jacket, producing the item in question - a glass, skull shaped jar, filled with some sort of blue liquid, and sealed with black wax. He takes it from the stranger, inspecting it carefully, turning it in his fingers.

It’s a curious thing.

He watches the color catch in the light, while Tony speaks cordially with Annabelle, exchanging mindless pleasantries that fade away to white noise.

“Am I supposed to drink it?” he asks, unable to contain himself much longer.

At the question, Tony, still smiling, tilts his head, “Well I got a message for ya.”

“Ok?”

“Do you want to hear it?”

He bites back his frustration, forces calm and patience, “Yes, that would be most helpful.”

“Jasper,” the man starts, eyes turning up, as he works to remember, reciting the words in halting phrases, “Put this on if you want to heal the pain. Will you trust me? Eva. That’s the message.”

He finds himself grinning at the prospect. He is in pain. It is has been incredible and unending for nights now; a reprieve would be welcome.

Next to him, the others are cooing, so he hardens his features once more, “Way weirder than I thought it was going to be.”

He thinks something is in his chest, perhaps, just for a second. He stares at the bottle. Questions again. Different questions of a different nature. 

He knows her inquiry is not just about trust, or at least, it’s about a very specific level of trust. His own words echo in his mind - never assume that they will never hurt you. Then again…when has he ever shied away from pain?

“Tony, was it? When you leave, you can tell Eva that I _do_ trust her.”


	8. Nature, red in tooth and claw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva requests something that Jasper has already promised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from In Memoriam A.H.H. Canto 56 - Alfred Lord Tennyson
> 
> "Who trusted God was love indeed  
> And love Creation's final law—  
> Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw  
> With ravine, shriek'd against his creed—"

He is not surprised when she arrives, but even knowing that she had agreed to aid them, his excitement at seeing her is not diminished. The teasing of the coterie when she sent the potion comes to mind, so he keeps himself outwardly calm and still, as she enters the room, though his attention is solely on her. 

She is as she always is, to him, wrapped in ethereal beauty, a sacred puzzle that he longs to understand. She likes walking in the rain, a fact that he holds onto and puts away to study later. 

And then she, divine being, approaches him, wretched and unworthy, with her soft smile, and his chest cracks open to her, a gaping maw that seeks to hold. It is not the Beast. He does not hunger for her in that way. At least not in the moment.

“Jasper,” she says, and he wishes no one else could speak his name but her, “you look well.”

He doesn’t. Hasn’t for a very long time now, really. 

He begins to say so, but he catches the words, instead managing to return her compliment. To thank her for the potion, which has soothed the burns and healed the scars of the fire.

She…touches him. 

Cold fingers caress his face, following the memory of where his skin had been crisp and black. He has not been touched in years. Not like this. Not without the intent to harm. He wants to close his eyes, but he wants to look at her. He longs for privacy once more, and he wonders how it is that these moments keep happening in the company of others, when he is unable to safely process all that passes through him.

She touches him.

“Back to your old self.”

“…yeah,” he croaks, smiling to see her smile.

“Looking good, Sherriff,” Victor jokes, and he feels the air around Eva shift immediately.

She turns to him, “I’m sorry?”

He explains, and her face is stony silent. The others continue to tease. Even he laughs, but he laughs for a different reason. They imagine how funny it would be to see him in chaps. He knows that he will die because of this.

So does Eva.

She is not amused.

He will refuse the offer, and they will kill him on principle. He knows that he will refuse the offer because she will not look at him, much less speak to him, if he accepts. Final death it is, then, he decides, and allows himself to sit with that. There are worse fates, though it would be unfortunate to die now, when he has something to cling to.

* * *

She offers him a pendant to protect him from possession, to keep him safe, and there is part of him that is amused that she is concerned for his safety, while he is preparing to die to keep her in his unlife, for whatever part he has remaining. He does not say this. He thanks her. He slips the fine silver chain around his neck, feels the metal bounce against his bare chest, and with that simplest gesture, it becomes a memento to him.

He wonders at times if he would have made it into the Tremere himself. The occult had been of interest to him in life, and perhaps if things had been different…if the altercation in New York had not gone as it had, they would have met in different circumstances.

It is no matter. They met in these circumstances, and here she sits.

The ancient nettle knife spikes his curiosity, and it is begrudgingly that he hands it to Nelli.

Even more wondrous is the chance to watch Eva perform her magic once more. He is mesmerized by her hands, as they draw shapes in her blood. Of course that is a given. He is equally mesmerized by her face, focused and still soft, concentrating on her craft. Kindred spirits, he thinks, the term ironic now, but no less true.

And she calls him kind, a compliment he cannot accept with any real grace. He is not kind. He is a monster who lurks in the dark. He should not keep allowing himself to think otherwise.

Even when she asks to speak to him in private.

* * *

The others tease and titter, as they leave him alone with her. They are amused. They project their own realities onto something they do not understand. Perhaps it is edged with cruelty, or perhaps, more likely, they forget that Nosferatu do not get to partake in those sorts of pleasantries.

But more importantly, she is scared, and he sees it, and he is far less amused.

Strauss.

The name spikes something in him. Something that tastes like rage on his tongue, when he listens to her speak of him. 

“He has my blood,” she confides, voice shaking.

Jasper is no sorceror, but he is Kindred, and he knows the power of such a thing, the danger inherent in her position. The rage boils. 

She stumbles over her words, speaking in fits and starts, so unlike her. Yes, he tastes rage within himself, but her fear is just as tangible. He wishes to take it from her.

“Please. Do not mention that you know me. I don’t want him to hurt you-”

“Right,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. 

Of course she does not want Strauss to hurt the coterie; he knows that. They may not have a choice, either. His companions are brash, some might say arrogant, but he believes them simply ignorant.

She seems to agree.

“I know that I am likely going to die,” he confesses, thinking of the reaction he may receive when he refuses the position of sheriff. 

“I do not want you to die,” she chokes, and for the first time, it dawns on him that perhaps she was speaking of him specifically, not the coterie, because when she says it, her words become jumbled again, anger and fear spilling out with each word.

“I just,” she sinks against her chair, shaking her head, “I need you to help…protect me.”

This is something he can do. He can protect her. His wasted existence can serve a purpose at last, and he knows in this moment that he has been waiting for this, waiting for her to ask, waiting for permission to throw himself between her and the world and all of the monsters like him, waiting for a way to show her what she means to him, a way available to a creature such as him. This is the only way.

The others tease, but he is not like them. He does not fool himself. He knows what he is, and he cannot touch this celestial being, cannot hold her against him, cannot display his affections in the ways that they imply with their jokes.

But he can do this.

He smiles with what is likely manic intensity, whispers, “Yes.”

“If you are willing, of course. I know we have favors, but-”

“I am willing.”

“Thank you.”

“Ohhhh,” he sighs, thinking of the lengths to which he is willing to go, “I will get it back.”

His resolve allows him to maintain eye contact. He pulls words from his chest that have lingered for too long, silent and clawing, but despite the strength he finds in her request, the closest he can offer to the whole truth is, “I appreciate you being around, and I wouldn’t want you to not be.”

She seems to shy away from his words, and there is a thrill in that. Guarded and faint. Dangerous.

“So I will try.”

She leans towards him, and he towards her.

“Thank you.”

He wants to touch her.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t. He forces his hand to stay on his lap. 

She looks away with a smile, “I do intend to keep the last favor. That I’m very interested in, and you’re not getting out of.”

He pictures her in his Haven, and he returns the smile, “I wasn’t trying.”

You can have anything, he thinks, as they discuss what is coming next that evening. You can have everything. 

There are no favors between them now, not really. She need only ask, and he will do it.

He will protect her.

* * *

He has the opportunity to fulfill his new purpose almost immediately, hours later, as a house begins to fall down around them. 

There is no one else in his mind. Even as he sustains injury from the collapsing roof, he launches himself at her, tackling her through the window and twisting to soften her landing on the rain-slick ground below.

Everything in him hurts. He is a creature of pain and little else, but he ensures she is safe, setting her reverently on the earth before stumbling away.

In the chaos around them, she is an anchor of calm, and he leans close when he regains himself somewhat, “Are you alright?”

She stares at him strangely, hand going to his arm, and he thinks there are words forming in her irises that she means for him to read, but he is distracted again by the agony of his broken body. It will mend, he knows. He leans into her touch.

He watches her, as she helps him to the car, looking for any sign of hurt.

“Are you alright?” There is the slightest hint of accusation in her question.

He smiles. He is not, but he does not wish to worry her, “I suppose I will be. I still have more of that potion that you gave me. And I’m not dead, so there’s something.”

A slight squeeze on his arm, “That’s very good.”

When she goes back for the mortal who was left in the house, the long wait for her return, the feeling of uselessness, sharpen the edges of his physical discomfort. The look on her face when they return empty handed is worse, and he wishes he knew better how to protect her from this.

Annabelle takes her hand, drawing his eyes to the contact; he wonders at how easily she is able to do that.

But his hands remain firmly clenched in his lap.


	9. Now sleeps the crimson petal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worlds collide for Jasper, and it is unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from Lord Alfred Tennyson's poem "Now sleeps the crimson petal."

It is not clear which part of this situation is worse. He has been on fire. He thinks he would prefer that now to this.

He thinks perhaps he will combust when Eva turns to look at him, something awfully close to confused betrayal on her features, as Fiona explains who Chloe is, while Chloe moans and whimpers in near unconsciousness. His sins are laid bare, the consequence of his momentary stupidity months ago now opening its ravenous jaws to swallow him whole.

Yes, being on fire would be preferable.

And, as he suspects in all situations, as always happens, things only get worse.

This…whatever it is…is tied to the blood bond between Chloe and Fiona, and those are words he never thought he’d think.

Worse begins with a ritual to gauge the truth of Fiona’s words.

“Was she scared?”

“No. If she had been, I would have eaten her.”

He considers eating Fiona.

Still it degrades further from there.

Eva’s hand is on his arm when she asks for his trust, which he gives freely. She had asked before, through a messenger, what feels like years ago, and he had said yes. It’s no less true now. Probably more so, in fact.

Watching her fangs sink into Chloe’s neck should test that trust, and perhaps it does, but it barely registers. It is still difficult to witness.

Watching the pain flash over her features when she opens her arm and bleeds their combined vitae into the cauldron is just as difficult. He has seen her perform rituals many times, and it has never seemed to hurt like this.

Guilt is not new to him. It is the Beast’s twin, after all, just as relentless and insidious. It laughs at him now, points its twisted, gnarled finger first at Chloe, then at Eva, and when it points, he sees and smells the burning, and its laugh becomes a roar of _you did this; this is on your head, murderer, destroyer of lives._

Eva is in pain, and neither the Guilt nor the Beast are as strong as his urge to go to her, to protect her. He touches her shoulder, seeking to comfort, and before the pain comes the realization that he has never touched her like this. He doesn’t have time to consider this milestone because just as her hand is boiling in the blood, his own begins to smoke, and he knows this particular pain all too well.

Perhaps his Beast is as strong as his urge to protect and comfort. He pulls away automatically, and he tries not to take it personally, but part of him does.

He has never been worthy of her, and the searing burn in his hand is a fitting reminder.

When it is done, he cannot tear his eyes away from her - powerful, awe-inspiring. Beautiful. Hurt.

“Are you ok?” he whispers. In that moment, it is all that matters.

She nods.

Whatever Eva does helps. Chloe wakes, once more aware, lucid, and the descent into worst-case scenario continues its trajectory, two pairs of eyes now staring their accusations at him. Well, three, but the third pair holds no sway over him.

Chloe screams when she sees him, realizes who he is. 

_What did they do to you._

The words pierce and echo, bounce in his mind, familiar bedfellows from the minutes before dawn, when he is staring down the Beast and facing the day sleep. He has no mirrors in his Haven. Surely now she understands. 

Surely now his monstrousness is clear enough for her see why he disappeared. Surely now she will leave this behind.

The blows should be easier to take, he tells himself, but he is raw. 

There are no good options from here.

Nothing about the world he inhabits now, this world of…decay, of darkness, is wholly good. Even Eva, transcendent and kind, has a Beast that threatens to consume her at every turn, he knows. He knows because they all do.

He tries to make Chloe see that. Eva tries. Fiona is a snake, and she holds out the apple for Chloe to taste again. And Chloe, of course, will not back down.

Eva is the best option. Not ideal. 

Eva slices her arm again.

Both women bleed because of his actions, and for a moment he wonders if he is a protagonist in a Greek play about hubris, or perhaps one of Shakespeare’s studies of human folly. 

He doesn’t want this life for Chloe, and Eva doesn’t want the responsibility of Chloe’s life, and he has done this to them, brought them here, to this bloody precipice, and he reaches out to her again, to steady her, to feel, maybe for the last time he knows, the gentle curve of her shoulder, and he is again rewarded with pain.

She is unhappy. She is displeased. She did not want this burden, and she reminds him that she has never done this for anyone.

“We are all of us selfish,” Fiona had said, and she is right, and he hates her for many reasons and that one most of all.

But Eva still looks at him, watches him cradle his arm close to his chest, reaches out her own hand to him, and he is less concerned about the burn than he is about the absence of freedom to touch her again. There is still something soft in her eyes. He wants to comfort her, doesn’t want to be the burden, the dumpster fire, as Fiona had put it.

He looks at his raw hand. The pain flares.

“You don’t usually touch me,” she says. An explanation. An accusation.

He deserves it, he knows. 

“That’s true. I don’t usually touch anyone.”

He is, after all, a monster.


	10. Red agonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper sends a text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies." - Sylvia Plath

He spins the ring idly. He finds it helps him to focus, even though a small part of him lingers with the memory of receiving it. 

Things had been…chaotic. A bit unpleasant.

She had not offered details, and he had not pressed, although as he studies the molded copper wrapped around his finger, he wishes he had asked even just a few questions.

At least she had told him she was going away. And left the trinket, which he had slipped on immediately upon finding with its accompanying note.

He has been working on it. He cannot read Russian, and he is too stubborn to resort to the internet. Not for this. Not for something that she gave him. She is worth the time to do it right. To do it delicately, with intent, with purpose, with focus.

The translation is done.

My crimson petal.

He smiles to think of it. 

He is reminded of a rose. Of course he is, but he is reminded of a specific rose, one pressed reverently between the pages of a special book, another secret buried underneath the park. This secret, though, is his alone.

He is reminded of shimmering liquid that soothed, fingers that traced his once-scarred skin that soothed even more.

He is reminded of a hand dipped in blood, as it burned, a face carefully composed into calm, like a shuttered window that he needed to see into but could not open. He frowns at the memory.

He remembers a face far more still than it has any right to be, desperation threatening to give way to complete apathy.

She is…away. Away from LA. Away from the responsibilities. Away from the war.

Away from him.

And like a ghost she glimmers to me.

The only reference he has found is the poem, but he thinks that he must misunderstand. He has read the verse every night since finding it, and he cannot reconcile the words with…well, certainly not with himself.

His thumb passes back and forth over the worn keypad of his phone, brushing over the numbers with a rhythm borne of uncertainty. Uncertain at his own certainty.

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me.

In the light of the sun, as they fled from fire, in the darkness that came swiftly after it, hers was the face he saw. He could not succumb, had to make it to safety, if only to see her face once more. Even shuttered, closed to him. Even angry. Even disappointed. It wouldn’t matter, so long as it is hers.

He taps the keys, finishes, and looks at what is left on the screen.

The sun hurts more than it used to.

It sounds right in his mind when he reads it. He is inspired for a moment to translate it to Russian, but there isn’t the time. 

He presses the green lettered SEND button with an assuredness he does not feel, and he is rewarded with silence.


	11. Four red roses on a stalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva returns, and she joins Jasper in his haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 3, Episode 2
> 
> Title from William Shakespeare -- "Their lips were four red roses on a stalk."
> 
> Oh this episode.

He is at the gas station far earlier than he needs to be, waiting in silence at the side of the building, wrapped in the shadows it casts, safely out of the brighter lights of the aging pump stands. He spins the ring on his finger, as he waits, wondering. Perhaps worrying.

She arrives, out of the darkness and into the light.

He has not seen her in weeks. He only heard from her days ago, when they agreed on this time and place to meet, for her to collect on her favor.

The flickering overhead fluorescents are not powerful enough to diminish the otherworldly nature of her beauty. Had he any breath, it would be stolen. Instead he feels the strange sensation in his chest that accompanies her every time, a phantom of a heartbeat that he no longer has.

It is clear she does not see him, and as much as he cherishes this moment to watch her uninterrupted, he does not wish to be rude.

“Hey,” he calls softly, scanning the abandoned parking area to ensure they are alone, and dropping his obfuscation.

At the sound of his voice, she turns to face him, looking at him then down, shy perhaps, or…unsure, as he softens his voice, “Hi.”

She is dressed simply -- a short-sleeved white dress, hair pulled into a pair of braids that are over her shoulders. Does she know how enchanting she is?

The remaining steps between them expand; she does not step closer, and he cannot leave the shadows.

“Hello,” she greets him at last.

“So you’re back,” he murmurs, and it is half question. Is she back? Of course she is here. She is meeting him. But…

She nods, “Yes,” she draws it out, looks down at her feet again, and he knows that she understands the actual question, “I’m back.”

“I’m back,” she repeats, more sure this time, and he has never experienced relief like this.

“Yeah,” he smiles softly, a small thing, as small as the hope he allows himself, “Ok. Let’s…get inside. Before we talk more.”

* * *

She is here, in his Haven. 

Even when he first found this, it felt like home, but he stands to the side, watching her trace the spines of the books in his collection, and it feels new. He studies her face, appreciates the awe and reverence he sees there, the reflection of what he feels in the large, circular library.

“This is amazing,” she murmurs, he thinks perhaps to herself, but she looks at him when she adds, “I could get lost here.”

There is that strange flutter again.

He cannot stop himself from smiling. Preening, he thinks it could be called, given the sense of pride he feels.

“I’ve mentioned before that I was, before I was changed, I was interested in these things. Some of these are left over from then. Some of them I’ve collected since. I build it when I can. But, uh, you’re correct,” he looks fondly at his collection, “you can get lost in here.”

He feels like he is babbling, unable to stop the words, caught somewhere between feelings of joy, at her obvious excitement for the things he appreciates, and being overexposed. Not for the first time, he believes that she can see into his very center, and he worries that she will see that he is not enough.

Despite his disquiet, he cannot stop his curiosity, so he asks about her trip.

New York.

He wants to swallow away the imagined taste that lingers.

He remembers New York, though it feels like…technically was a lifetime ago.

“You know I realize, I know so little about you,” she muses.

It’s not entirely intentional. It’s fear, and it’s prudence. But I will tell you anything you ask. These are the things he thinks.

He doesn’t say these things. He tries to, but the words don’t come out right. Jumbled and stuttering, he manages to explain, he hopes, that that has been largely intentional throughout his unlife, his secretive nature. It is, of course, a carryover from his life.

He settles finally on, “You know more than most.”

“I’m not looking to compete,” she says, with a subtle shrug of a shoulder, and he wonders if she knows that there is no competition. She has already won.

There is a beat of silence before she gazes again at the books, expresses her interest in coming back again.

He would give his right arm to have her here again. He tempers the thought, struggles again with his words, and he bites back his frustration with himself. 

He has known Eva for some time now. They have been alone together. He has learned from her and taught her. 

But the air is charged tonight, and he knows he is not imagining it. He does not believe it’s just wishful thinking, especially when she expresses the desire to return, even hints that staying here, in his home, would be a sufficient way to spend the evening, despite their deal, the favor he owes her.

* * *

It’s not entirely a lie, he tells himself, as he explains the cages in the back of the hall. He skips the part about his feeding habits. He isn’t sure which part makes him feel dirtier -- knowing how she would feel about what he does or lying to her. 

But the words are out, now, and as Fiona had said, they are, all of them, selfish creatures. 

“Thank you for being honest with me,” she says, and oh…

Suddenly he can hear a clock start ticking in his mind, from now until the day she does learn the truth. He tucks away the dread that the thought fills him with, a trouble for another day, whispering, “Yeah.”

Perhaps she hears the ticking, or he is not so good at lying because she leans forward, “Are you ok?”

He clears his throat and offers the truth that he can push out of his chest, “This is new to me. This is really new to me. This is a lot of territory we’re covering here that I don’t normally do. Just getting used to it.”

She smiles at that, and he allows himself to forget the ticking clock for a moment. 

“I’ve seen a lot worse, Jasper.”

His name again, on her lips. A thrill passes through him.

“I’ve put you through a lot,” he confesses, “since we’ve met. And I’m trying to not make that worse.” Another truth. But the clock ticks louder, a reminder.

She reminds him that he’s saved her life, as if that is some boon he has offered. As if doing so did not in fact save him just as much. As if he had any choice, after meeting her in the light of the moon in Griffith Park. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” she says, taking his hand.

I owe you everything, he thinks, looking at her graceful fingers covering his own, or at least I will give it to you. He smiles, almost laughs. She is so smart; surely she knows.

“I certainly don’t want you to associate yourself with me because you feel you owe it to me-”

“No, I don’t…I don’t think that I…that’s not why I associate myself with you,” he nearly laughs the words back at her, but he doesn’t mean to insult. The idea is just absurd to him, that a radiant creature such as she would ever believe he would need to be bought through favors. As if he would not have opened his wrist and spilled his vitae at her feet if she asked.

“Ok,” she whispers.

And he is seized with the powerful need to know. He likes puzzles, but he likes solving them more. And he has to understand, has to answer this question before they go into the darkness beyond, now before he will be unable to hold himself together, should he hear anything other than what he is hoping for.

“You, uh, you left…me the, uh, the thing before…before you left. You left me the ring.”

“Yes,” she draws out the word, encouraging him to ask, or at least he believes that is the point for the soft lilt in her voice. 

He manages to get it out, words tumbling from his mouth in an order that he hopes is at least marginally coherent. Whatever he says seems to make sense to her because she confirms the translation.

“No one calls me nice things,” he admits, and he hopes she understands what he means. 

* * *

They have not entered the labyrinth yet. She is leaning against the wall near the room where he keeps his guests, and when the subject of Strauss comes up, he watches the way she hugs herself. 

Colorless, she says, a curse, but he hopes she knows that it does not diminish her beauty.

“I can’t have you going after him.”

He wants to laugh again. They are no longer in the library, but had she perused his desk, she would have seen the notes scribbled, ideas that he has entertained as possible avenues to retrieve her blood, and with each, a note that its outcome would be…less than satisfactory. 

But he is not unwilling.

“I can’t have him know, uh-”

“You exist. Right.”

“I’m sure he knows I exist. I can’t have him know…that you mean anything to me.”

“Right,” he says, as if he knew, “that would be bad.”

He thinks his heart beats again, and he wonders if she is able to perform some sort of magic that does that, mimics the feeling of what others call the blush, because though he manages to stay calm, somehow, he thinks his blood is singing.

“That would be very bad. The last person who meant,” she stops short, and he almost screams for her to explain it, clearly, in no uncertain terms because the hope mixed with uncertainty is torture, “he killed the last person.”

Get in line, he wants to say, though he gratefully is able to say so more eloquently. He thinks. In truth, the words he speaks do not reflect his thoughts, which are centered wholly on one thing: I mean something to her.

She takes his hand again, holding it in her palm, fingers of her other hand stroking the length of his forefinger. He knows it is longer than it used to be, as if it had stretched to become a claw but stopped short. He is lucky that it did not complete that transformation.

“I don’t,” he starts, but the words are difficult; he has to force them through a lump in his throat, as he thinks about the days that she was absent, “I don’t want you to go away again.”

She shakes her head, meeting his eyes, but he continues, “I don’t want to know that I partially or wholly caused you to go away. It was, uh…”

Painful.

Gut wrenching.

Lonely.

“I didn’t like that.”

He grins because it is his best defense against pain, and she is still shaking her head, and she is still holding his hand, and his chest is squeezing tight around something that shouldn’t be there anymore.

“You didn’t cause me to go away. I just…felt a little lost,” she looks down at their hands, as well.

He knows the feeling well, but he understands that he is the source of that feeling, “Understandable. I threw a lot of stuff at you.”

She shrugs a little, drawing her shoulders up with an air of uncertainty, “I didn’t…know what I was supposed to be doing. I,” she affects an inhale, “I still feel a little lost.”

There is a stab of panic in his chest at that. When will she go away next?

“But I decided,” and now she is drawing patterns on the skin of his hand, and it is soothing just as it is tempting, “that I should follow my heart.”

He has the sensation of holding his breath, takes air in and lets it out in a nervous huff.

“And it led me back here.”

He smiles at that, ducking his head to hide his expression, “Right, uh…”

There is excitement and joy and fear bubbling up in him, and he wants to do something with it, but he doesn’t know what, not anymore, not as he is. Stabbing through his bliss is the reminder that he is not deserving of this; he is, in a word, repugnant. He cannot possibly, nor should he, incite such warmth in someone as lovely and wonderful as Eva.

She offers an olive branch, even as she continues to graze his hand with her fingertips, “By the way, you know not to touch these, right?”

He looks down at the fabric covering her hands and almost laughs, from relief, as much as the memory of his stupidity, which he admits to her freely, though he is soon back to his thoughts, muttering them aloud, not on purpose, “This is weird. This is not…this is not supposed to happen.”

She pulls her hands away then, twisting them together, “If you…give me some of your blood, I can make sure that they don’t hurt you.”

An invitation.

To touch her freely.

He considers spilling it for her there, but he doubts that it’s the right time, so instead he draws her attention once more to the labyrinth.

* * *

She confirms some of his suspicions about the mirror, but the greater gift she offers is taking his hand to step through. He doesn’t think to warn her ahead of time, but in the moment before she pulls him into that darkness, he is swept up in her obvious sense of adventure.

He recognizes the glint in her eye.

“Let’s go through,” she says when she grabs him, and he smiles at her curiosity.

He wishes there were a word for what he feels, and then he wishes he could feel anything but the pressing darkness and cold of the portal.

When they arrive at the other side, she is squeezing his hand, and he apologizes for failing to warn her, but she doesn’t let go of his hand right away, so he believes he is forgiven.

Seeing her investigate the mirror sparks his memory, and he is consumed with the desire to find the strange room with the strange veins once more. He knows that she will appreciate it, the same way he does, and now he has shared this with someone - with her - he wants to share more.

He tells her about finding this place. He tells her about the other Nosferatu. 

And they find him.

This isn’t where he had meant to go, but it’s as if the labyrinth heard him speaking about it and leads them to the room, where both mysteries reside.

“This isn’t where I was leading you, but it’s the same…thing.”

He explains his theories about the ley lines, and she doesn’t dismiss him offhand, so he supposes he’s onto something. 

“Have you ever touched them?”

“No,” he says, surprised at the question, “I wanted to know more before - I know, an unusual amount of caution on my part-”

She laughs at that, a real laugh.

He tells her about the hunger, or lack thereof, partially hoping for an explanation, but also out of pure excitement to be working on a puzzle with someone. To be working on this puzzle with her.

“Maybe I should stay here,” she comments. It’s off-handed; she is gazing at the red latticework before them, but her words sink into him.

“You can,” he murmurs, and she turns, at his words or tone, he’s not sure, “if you…if you want.”

Stay with me, he thinks, even as he rambles, “I mean not here, here. Here would be weird, I wouldn’t stay here - you know what I meant.”

She smiles at him, leaning in closer, before her smile broadens further, “I’m going to touch these. Hopefully nothing bad happens.”

* * *

Something bad happens.

One minute he is watching her, bathed in purple light, transfixed, as she waves her hands over the red lines floating in the air. The next, she is pulling her hand violently away, the smell of burning flesh prominent. He reaches out automatically to grab her, pulling his hand back at the last moment, as he remembers. When he sees her hand, he touches her shoulder anyway, drawing close to her, “Are you ok?”

And that is just before dark shadows begin to leak out from the dais upon which his first victim sleeps.

There is a frantic moment, in which he is wondering how he can possibly fight off this Lasombra, settling on keeping her busy for long enough to allow Eva to escape.

But then they are floating, rising off the floor, and Eva’s arm is around him. It is shocking, though not unpleasant, “I didn’t know you could take people with you.”

They…fly through the tunnels; he guides her, and she moves them through the air, and he does not relax until they are in the maintenance tunnels once more.

He lets out a sigh, and she turns to him, smiling; she looks exhilarated.

“So…unexpected events,” he offers, breaking the tense silence of their flight - literal and figurative - from the chamber.

She is very close. 

In the calm, now, they discuss more plainly what they found, and she begins to theorize about the ley lines. She agrees. That is what they are, and she has studied the theory, explains their connection to places.

After a moment, her face shifts slightly, “Oh. I hope I didn’t…do anything.”

“I can go there tomorrow and check. Or I can have Victor send someone during the day,” he offers, though he is reminded of what happened, and there is a more pressing concern.

“Can I see your hand?”

She makes a breathy sort of chuckle and slides her hand into his, palm up. He traces it with his fingers reverently, pained to see the black mark marring the center of it. He does not want to stop the contact, caressing the smooth planes of her wrist, as well.

“I guess you’ll have to make more of that healing potion,” he tries to joke.

“I don’t know if I can,” she muses, watching his fingers’ path, “I may have given you the only one.”

He smiles at that, feeling privileged and shy, “I’m sorry I wasted it then.”

“It wasn’t a waste,” she corrects him, and now she is the one exploring with her fingers, making a circle over his forearm.

She is closer now, leaning toward him, “Your safety is very important to me, Jasper.”

He bites back his nervousness, willing himself to be calm. How is she able to so clearly express herself? How is it that she believes him worthy of her care? 

“Yours is important to me, too,” he assures her.

The air is heavy, even as they linger inches above the ground, and it seems a fitting metaphor.

“You, uh, you can come back here whenever you want. I don’t get a lot of visitors.”

They both smile at this. She knows how private he is. Surely she understands now what he is offering, disbelieving as he is that she would want it, despite the slow circle her fingers still make over the sleeve of his jacket.

“I’d like that,” she admits to their joined hands.

When she looks up again, she moves her fingers from his arm to his face, and he is reminded of the first time she touched him.

“I think I’ve been alone long enough,” she says.

The words register, but he doesn’t understand right away, simply agreeing, “I get that.”

It has been nice, he thinks, having someone to explore with. He is grateful for her company, her expertise, her thirst for knowledge.

A voice in the back of his mind that has been dormant for years is what alerts him to the shift in the atmosphere. It tells him what is going to happen, but he doesn’t believe it.

Until her other hand rises to frame his face, and she is drawing closer, and oh, he remembers this. He remembers the electricity that builds, the anticipation, the sudden awareness of every detail just before…

Her lips touch his.

It is different now. His memory supplies the comparison.

Her lips, as well as his, are cold. So are her hands on his equally cold cheeks.

His pulse does not jump because he has no pulse.

But so much is the same.

It is soft and gentle, and the first brush of her lips against his reminds him that she likes to walk in the rain, and he thinks that he might too because it might feel like this.

The second kiss he chases, leaning further into her and adding pressure. 

He wants to do that again. And again. He wants to do more he thinks.

“Ah,” he growls, and he hears its gruffness, as much as he feels it in his chest, “That’s uh…that’s a long time.”

She smiles and leans her forehead against his, eyes closed.

“Maybe I’ll stay for a while,” she murmurs, teasing his skin again, “read a few of those books.”

“Yeah,” he pants against her.

“Maybe I’ll bring you some of mine?”

“I’d like that.”

She leans against him again, and it is only then that they begin to float back to the ground.


End file.
